


Solifluction

by Veldeia



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Carbonite Freezing (Star Wars), Din Djarin Whump, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Original Character Death(s), Whump with plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veldeia/pseuds/Veldeia
Summary: A job gone wrong drives Din to make the last-ditch play of encasing himself in carbonite, placing his life in the hands of his friends.(Takes place in a vague season-2-ish. Fills the prompt "delirium" for my Bad Things Happen Bingo card.)
Relationships: Din Djarin & Cara Dune & Greef Karga, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 11
Kudos: 67
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I binged The Mandalorian over the Christmas holidays and fell completely in love. As a long-time Iron Man fan, I’m amused that apparently my type is "guys in a suit of armor, brought to live action media by Jon Favreau". The existing fic on AO3 couldn’t satisfy my endless craving for seeing Din in deep trouble, so I had to write something myself. There’s probably nothing here that hasn’t already been done before in some form, but hey, more cake! And I used my favorite recipe, too!
> 
>  **Content warnings** : A nasty, entirely made-up disease plays a major part in the story. Although it has nothing in common with what's going on in the world right now, if you’re too stressed out by pandemic things, this might not be your favorite fic.

[**_Solifluction_**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solifluction) _is a collective name for gradual processes in which a mass moves down a slope related to freeze-thaw activity._

  


* * *

  


Ten minutes after landing on the rocky soil of Nevarro and powering down, the _Razor Crest_ remains still and quiet.

Cara Dune has never been a particularly patient person, and she's been waiting long enough. She walks over to the hatch in the side of the ship and gives it a sharp knock. "Mando? Not gonna come and say hi?"

She gets no answer, and a few more minutes and a lot more knocking don't gain her one, either.

She's no doubt being overprotective about these two, after everything they've already been through together, but this feels ominous to her. "Okay, I'll let myself in, then," she mutters to the hull of the ship, and goes for the manual controls to open the ramp. Thankfully, Mando hasn't changed the passcode, so she doesn't need to break anything to let herself in.

"Hey! Mando! Kid!" she calls out once more.

At first glance, the cargo hold seems empty. It's only when Cara stops to listen properly that she hears the scratching and muffled childish babbling through the door to the sleeping compartment. The control panel is busted, and she doesn't have the technical skills to fix it, at least not as fast as she wants to get through. Instead, she goes for a blade and plenty of brute strength and manages to wrench the door open enough that the child can slip out and into her arms. He's clearly upset, waving and whining at her.

"Sorry, kiddo, I don't know what you're trying to tell me," she says, rubbing the child's back in what she hopes to be a soothing gesture. "Did Mando end up in trouble and send you to safety?"

That might be what's going on here, she figures. The Mandalorian was in such a bad situation that he locked up the child and sent him away. It would've had to be really serious, though, for him to allow himself to be separated from the child. She knows how much this tiny green one means to Mando.

She peeks into the compartment the kid was in. With some amusement, she notes that the bunk is littered with crumbs and other morsels of food. There's a basket next to the wall with some groceries in it, apparently the source of the mess. It's nice to know that at least the confined, concerned child had a soft bed and plenty of snacks.

Turning back towards the rest of the hold, she looks around to assure herself that Mando isn't here, unconscious and bleeding out in some corner. He's not; there's nothing there aside from crates and containers that aren't big enough to hide him from sight. The only other thing that catches her eye are a few blinking lights where the carbonite blocks are stacked, their occupants facing away from her. She didn't think he was doing much regular bounty hunting anymore, with his mission of finding out where the child belongs, but it looks like he's got a few people on ice. It's not really any of her business, so she leaves them alone for now.

She makes the awkward three-limbed climb up the ladder to the higher floor while holding on to the child. Upstairs, the cockpit is as empty as the hold: no one there, and nothing amiss. No signs of struggle, no blood, nothing visibly damaged. That's good, but also doesn't give her anything to start from.

Mando has left no messages in the ship's system. The flight logs say that he and the kid have been around and then some. Not surprising, considering how determined the Mandalorian is to fulfill his quest. The most recent locations are a moon in the Vassek system and the planet Besberra, neither of which she's familiar with. There's also an archived warning about a minor technical issue, but for a ship of this age, that's not unusual, and it's not the kind of thing that would suggest a firefight.

"Mysteries are really not my thing," she informs the kid. "I so wish you could just tell me what happened."

The kid seems to agree, gazing at her with those huge eyes, clawing at her collar.

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do: we'll go and ask Greef. He's well connected, maybe he knows someone in those places you visited. Anyway, he's got to be a better detective than I am," Cara declares, and heads back down to the hold.

Before leaving the ship, she decides to check the one remaining potential clue she can think of: the carbonite blocks. She hasn't even glanced at what kinds of beings are stored in them yet.

Carbon-frozen people aren't something she's needed to deal with before, but she can figure out the basics of the block displays. Whoever's in the first block is dead.

She takes a closer look. The dead person turns out to be a human male, slim in build, with buzz cut hair and the kind of haughty features that make her think of Imperial officers. He's not wearing a uniform, though, just casual clothes, a tunic and trousers. Nothing distinctive to go on, and no weapons in sight, either. His expression is peaceful enough that she'd bet he was dead or at least unconscious before the freeze, because from what she's heard, that experience is far from pleasant.

She steps around to the second carbonite block, where the display seems to indicate a live occupant—and stares.

There's no mistaking this silhouette. There might be others who wear similar armor, but even in carbonite, the mudhorn signet on the right pauldron is unmistakable.

Din Djarin is on the ship, after all, now covered from head to toe in silver.


	2. Freeze

In times like these, Din is glad that the helmet hides his expression.

He's about as far as you can get from a diplomat. Being stuck in endless negotiations around a gilded glass table is truly not his idea of a good time. He's starting to wonder if his client sent him here as a joke, and if he should walk out and drop this frustrating job—but he gave his word. He has to see this through. Besides, they haven't come across any promising leads in weeks, and Olva Fress, the mob boss who hired him, swore she has information on a group of Mandalorians. Din only needs to do this one task for her to get it.

Travel to Vassek 2, meet the Zabrak couple ruling the local underworld, and bring back the associate they're holding hostage, without harming anyone. If he assaults the Zabraks, the deal is off. If the mark is hurt in any way, the deal is off. This isn't Din's usual style, but he's going to have to manage.

"What guarantee do we have that she'll deliver on the ransom once you're back?" the Baroness demands. The golden swirls decorating her purple-painted skin curl up further as she narrows her eyes at her hostage.

"How would I know?" Slate replies, putting down his crystal glass and crossing his arms. "I haven't been allowed to talk to Olva one single time during the months you've kept me here."

While both Zabraks are striking with their brightly colored, scantily clad bodies, their hostage is true to his name: like a slab of rock next to exotic plants. His clothes are simple and practical, his hair gray and close-cropped, and his stern, scarred face speaks of many battles fought. Not surprising, if smuggling has been his life's work, although Din suspects that he might rather have a military background. Din generally doesn't hold a grudge against his marks, simply doing his job as it needs to be done, but something about Slate rubs him the wrong way. It must be those pale, calculating eyes that make him look so unpleasant.

"Mandalorian. She sent you. You must have something to offer," the Baron insists, turning his green and silver striped face towards Din.

"You have her word that she'll pay as soon as the hostage is returned to her unharmed. She said your past collaborations should be enough of a guarantee," Din says, rephrasing what he's already told them before.

He doesn't see a way out of this stalemate. He doesn't blame the Zabraks for wanting insurance before letting go of their leverage. Of course, he also doesn't know anything about their history with Olva, so he can't be sure whether their demand is reasonable or not.

"How about you leave your son here until the deal's done? You could pick him up right after. We'd take good care of him—Slate can testify that we're generous hosts," the Baroness purrs, reaching over the table to offer a squirming worm to the kid, who's sitting on the table in front of Din.

Din tunes out the warm feeling brought up by having someone call the foundling his son, and brushes aside the snack before the kid can grab it. His disappointed look, complete with drooping ears, is heartbreaking, but Din doesn't trust any of these people. There's no way he would ever consider leaving the kid in their hands.

"No," Din says. He's not going to elaborate. His tone makes it final enough.

"Aw, too bad," the Baroness says, pouting. "He's the sweetest little guest we've ever had at this table, I will miss him!"

The Zabrak couple rule one of the largest towns on Vassek 2, a verdant moon that subsists officially on agriculture and unofficially on black market trade. Din doesn't know the place well, but he has the impression that many of the farms grow crops more lucrative and less legal than grain or vegetables. As for the Zabraks themselves, they have an air of tryhard glamour that Din finds as obnoxious as he does Slate's disdain.

It might also be that none of these people are particularly unpleasant, and it's Din's mounting frustration that makes him think he dislikes them for various reasons.

"Love, a word with you in private?" the Baron asks his partner, tilting his head towards one of the archways leading out of the room.

"Of course, dearest," she replies.

They leave Din, Slate and the kid on their own around the lavish table. Din can almost hear their voices, but the few words he picks up are in a language he doesn't know. After a while, he gives up and focuses on stopping the kid from emptying the bowls and plates laid out in front of them. Slate doesn't insist on small talk, and Din is perfectly fine with that.

Eventually, the Zabraks return, exchange pointless pleasantries, and insist on another round of drinks—only to depart again to consult one of their associates, and come back to talk some more. It's almost as if they're enjoying making a spectacle out of this, or like there's another layer to these negotiations that Din doesn't understand. He hates being so out of his depth. Slate seems to be getting more and more irritable, as well. His expression doesn't change much, but it's clear from the way he leans back in his chair and the occasional huff he lets out when he thinks no one is watching.

After a small eternity, they do reach an agreement. It's not optimal, and Slate doesn't approve, but Din will take it. He promises that if Olva doesn't come through with the payment, she'll become his next mark. Clearly, although she didn't want the Zabraks harmed, they have no qualms about executing her. No doubt there's a lot of complex history between the Zabraks and the human mobster.

Din is prepared to take out Olva if necessary, as long as he gets the information she promised him, but he does hope that she'll hold her end of the deal.

With the kid safely in his satchel and Slate walking in front so that Din can keep an eye on him, they cross the colorful gardens of the Zabraks' mansion to where the _Razor Crest_ is parked.

He's glad to get off this moon and has no intention of ever coming back.

  


* * *

  


Olva Fress has her base of operations hidden on a small moon in an otherwise uninhabited system that Din hasn't visited yet; he's navigating there based on the coordinates she gave him when they met at a busy spaceport. They've crossed less than a quarter of the distance when a blinking warning light for engine status forces them to take a detour.

"What's going on?" Slate asks, leaning closer to see the screens.

"Coolant level's down in the left thruster. Might be a leak," Din answers. No reason not to tell him. "We need to make a pit stop."

It's an old ship, and this kind of thing happens from time to time. It's not a critical fault, and the chances are they'd make it to their destination just fine regardless, but Din doesn't want to risk it.

"Oh, come on, that's nothing!" Slate complains, predictably. "You can have it fixed when we get to the base."

"I'm getting it fixed now," Din says.

Slate is smart enough to understand that arguing with Din is pointless, so he stays silent. No doubt he's glaring daggers at the back of Din's helmet.

It's funny, Din muses, how children can change your perspective. If it had been just him and Slate, he would've kept going without a second thought—but there's a tiny bundle asleep in his arms, and Din changes their course to bring them to the nearest inhabited world: a backwater planet called Besberra.

In his optimistic estimates, Din imagines it should only take a few hours to sort out the thruster. Of course, it turns out not to be that simple. As he suspected, it's a coolant leak, caused by a worn connector for which he has no suitable replacement. Again, in the old days, he might have improvised a solution to keep the tubing together, but he's already landed on a world he hadn't meant to visit, and there's no point in settling for a quick and dirty fix.

He leaves Slate locked up inside the _Crest_ , and spends the better part of the local day scouring the market of a bustling lakeside town for the part he needs. Most of the merchants are selling groceries and crafts, not tools or tech. That's not all bad; the kid is delighted, and Din ends up spending more credits than he had planned on.

Finally, when the sun is low on the horizon, they come across a small machine shop in a back alley and secure a shiny new connector. With that in hand, it's a simple matter to swap out the old part.

Slate doesn't seem particularly excited to see Din and the kid return, greeting them with a dour expression. "You have a medkit onboard this relic, Mando? All this nonsense is giving me a headache."

"You'll just have to suck it up," Din says. He does have medical supplies, but they're limited, and he needs them for actual emergencies, which this definitely isn't.

Slate sighs and rubs at his temple with his thumb. "Fine. Let's get going, then. The sooner, the better."

What Din isn't expecting is that Slate is, apparently, not just feeling a little unwell, but pretty rotten. As soon as they've jumped to hyperspace, he announces that he's going to retreat to the hold and lie down. Din's first instinct says that he might be up to something, but on second thought, that doesn't make sense; they're already headed where he wants to go. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Din sees that Slate's normally fair complexion has gone a few shades paler still, and he leans heavily on his chair as he gets up. It looks like he might be telling the truth.

"The crate with green labels by the starboard wall has pillows and blankets in it," Din offers, wondering absently if he would've been this nice before he met the child. Probably not.

It still hasn't crossed his mind that Slate might be seriously ill. The thud of a body hitting the floor at the bottom of the ladder startles both him and the kid. Din jumps out of the pilot's seat, turning around. The kid has straightened up, his ears perked and mouth open in surprise.

"Stay here, and don't touch anything. I'll go check on him," Din commands, stepping out of the cockpit and closing the doors behind him.

Looking down to the hold, he sees Slate sitting on the floor, knees drawn up and back against the ladder, holding his head with both hands.

"You okay down there?" Din calls out.

Slate doesn't look up, his reply of "not really" only just audible.

Din climbs down to join him, stepping off the ladder cautiously so as not to kick Slate in the face. "What happened? Did you fall?"

"Yeah. Got dizzy," Slate admits, letting one hand slide to his lap. The other still lingers on his forehead as he looks up at Din. Sweat is beading on his temples, and his cheeks stand out blushed against his otherwise wan face. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel like crap."

Switching to the thermal overlay on his display, Din sees that Slate's body temperature is clearly above normal. None of this sounds too unusual: headache, dizziness and fever could be any of a dozen common illnesses.

Din fetches a blanket and a pillow from the crate he described earlier and hands them to Slate. "Best stick to that plan of lying down. We've still got six hours left to go."

"Thanks," Slate says—the first time Din's heard him use that word—as he fumbles to grab the bedding.

Instead of moving away from the ladder to a more out-of-the-way corner of the ship, Slate drops the pillow right next to him, in front of the vacc tube, and curls up under a partly bunched-up blanket, like the simple act of straightening it is too strenuous. He's started shivering, his breaths coming in gasps.

It's as if he's growing worse by the second. This is starting to look like the sort of emergency that does warrant using those medical supplies, Din decides. He might not like Slate much, but he swore to bring the man back unharmed. Not helping him when he's this obviously sick would go against that promise.

It takes a bit of digging, but eventually, he finds an anti-pathogen hypo. During those minutes, Slate's fever has climbed even higher, burning through him like wildfire. Din grabs his shoulder, planning on explaining to him that he's going to inject some medication.

Slate recoils and stares up at him with wide, glazed eyes. "Olva? Olva, please," he whispers, his voice hoarse between raspy breaths. "Don't let them do it."

Whatever Slate is seeing, it's clearly not Din's visor. He's delirious.

Din has no clue how he should respond to this, but he's not going to pretend to be the man's partner to soothe him. "No, not Olva. I'm going to give you a shot, let's hope that helps."

Slate flinches as the hypo goes in his neck and tries to push Din's hand away, but the movement is uncoordinated and weak.

It can't have been more than fifteen minutes since Slate left the cockpit. The more Din thinks about it, the more convinced he grows that this isn't a natural infection, and if that's the case, that hypo won't make the slightest difference. Could the Zabraks have done something? Some kind of a bioweapon, or a delayed-action poison?

Din hears a soft coo from above and looks up to see the kid's silhouette at the top of the ladder.

Oh, no. His breath catches, his heart leaping to his throat. If it's poison—he did his best to stop the kid from sampling every dish on that fancy table, but he's sneaky and surprisingly nimble. He definitely snatched a treat or two. If something there was poisoned, if that's what has struck down Slate-

The child waves at Din and raises his voice inquiringly. So far, he doesn't seem to be feeling off, as far as Din can tell.

"Just stay there, kid. I need to take care of our passenger," Din calls out, trying to shake off the bout of concern.

The unfortunate thing is, while Din has plenty of experience patching up his own cuts and bruises, he's no healer, and the supplies he has on hand are as inadequate as his skills. He tries a poison-neutralizing agent, which doesn't seem to help any more than the anti-pathogen one did. The drug that's meant to counter a fever does lower Slate's temperature slightly, but it's not enough to bring him out of the hallucinations. He keeps talking to people who are not there, in an increasing state of distress.

Din hates witnessing this. He wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy.

When Slate's eyes slide shut, his strength seemingly running out, Din is almost relieved. A quick check of his vital signs confirms he's still alive, just unconscious. Maybe this is a good thing; he definitely needs rest.

Din is trying to decide whether he can leave Slate's side for a few minutes, climb upstairs and make sure the kid is doing okay, when Slate starts convulsing.

Again, there's not much Din can do, aside from ensuring that Slate doesn't smash his head against the bulkhead in the throes of the seizure.

When it finally stops and Slate falls limp on the floor, he's no longer breathing. Din crouches closer, turning up his helmet amplifiers, trying to pick up a heartbeat, but finds none.

There could still be some things to try—an adrenaline injection, chest compressions, oxygen from the ship's emergency supply—but at this point, Din is ready to admit defeat. He doesn't really think anything he can do is going to make a difference.

Slate is gone.

Din checks the time, and is stunned to realize that the entire episode, starting from when Slate first complained of a headache, has taken less than an hour.

He sits back, feeling shell-shocked in a way he hasn't in a while. He sees death around him every day, he's killed countless people and never thought about it again, but this—this was different. This was a bizarre, incomprehensible death, an unfair fight against an invisible enemy that he still doesn't know. He can't lie to himself: it's terrifying.

He doesn't know what killed Slate, which means he doesn't know if it's going to be a risk, to himself, or more importantly, to the kid. He stares at his gloved hands and wonders if they might be dangerously contaminated. It's a disturbing thought, but the idea of exposing his skin makes him even more uneasy. Besides, he still has to deal with the source of this potential contamination.

The _Crest_ might not have state-of-the-art medical capabilities, but it does have the facilities for what he needs to do next. Din carries Slate's lifeless body to the carbon-freezing station.

Watching the silvery substance cover Slate, Din finds himself wondering how things would've turned out if he hadn't decided to take that detour to fix the thruster. They might have postponed this until it was no longer his problem. Maybe Olva would've had better medical care available, and Slate would still be alive. But it's useless to speculate, and although Slate's death means that the job is forfeit, Din now has a new, more important one: making sure that everyone else is safe.

With Slate in carbonite, Din stuffs the potentially contaminated pillow and blanket in the laundry bin, to be cleaned thoroughly later—or possibly incinerated—and spends some time scrubbing his gloves as best he can. It's not quite enough to put to rest his concern that he might pass this on to the kid.

He really needs to find out what _this_ actually is.

The kid is waiting for him in the cockpit, well away from any controls, almost suspiciously well-behaved. Thankfully, a quick glance at a thermal view shows that the kid is the same temperature as usual. Din can breathe easier knowing that his foundling is fine.

"Don't know how much of that you saw, but something bad happened to Slate," he explains as he sits down in the pilot's chair. "We're gonna make a call. I have a hunch those Zabraks know something about this."

They're close enough to the Vassek system that he can open a direct communication line. The Baroness is the one to answer, her voice full of surprise. "Mandalorian! What an unexpected pleasure. Anything I can do for you?"

Din is never one for pleasantries, and today, even less so than usual. "Slate's dead," he says, without preamble.

Unlike getting a call from Din, the bluntly delivered bad news doesn't seem to surprise the Baroness at all. She tilts her head, and if Din can read her expression right on the small holo display, she's disappointed. "Only Slate and not Olva? Did you not reach her lair yet?"

They definitely knew about this, then. Clearly, Din's dislike of these people had not been undeserved. "We were delayed," he says. "She was your actual target?"

"Her, Slate, maybe a few more of her entourage if we got lucky," the Baroness replies with a shrug. "But yes, most of all that double-crossing bitch. The nerve on her, refusing to pay us upfront after everything she's done! We'll get our revenge, one way or another, but we're definitely not getting those credits now. I bet you won't get your reward, either. Serves you right. I don't understand why you'd take this long. You had plenty of time to reach Olva's base and drop off Slate before they succumbed to the viriole."

This puts everything that happened on Vassek in a different light. Was concocting this assassination scheme at short notice the explanation for the extended negotiations? Could it have been one of those later rounds of drinks that got Slate infected? Maybe the Zabraks' fortune wasn't built on selling intoxicants, like Din had thought, but more nefarious products like this.

"Never mind the payments—you tricked me into transporting a bioweapon!" he growls at the Baroness. "If there's any risk that this will spread-"

"Oh, relax, Mandalorian," she cuts him off, waving a hand dismissively. "This was a precision strike. Only the primary carrier is contagious—that's Slate, in case it wasn't obvious. If he's dead, that's the end of it. Besides, it only infects humans. You and your adorable kid were never in any danger. I wouldn't harm a hair on his precious little head," she ends with a simper.

Din's first reaction is relief: the kid is safe, for sure. Then, his mind catches up with the rest. _Dank farrik_. It sounds like the Zabraks had the common misconception that Mandalorians are a species of their own, or maybe they assumed that Din is the same species as his foundling.

The kid is safe. Din, himself, might not be.

"If other humans had been exposed, what then?" he asks. His modulated voice is as steady as ever, but he can't claim he's not getting nervous.

The Baroness makes a face like she's tasted something sour. "This is a hypothetical question, I hope? If not, well, send them my condolences. There's nothing else you can do—it's untreatable and a hundred percent fatal."

"I swear, if anyone else ends up dead, this won't be the last you've heard of me." Din cuts the connection. It's a pointless threat in that he obviously won't be able to avenge himself, if the worst comes to pass, but she doesn't know he's the potential victim.

He leans back in his chair, feeling like someone just knocked the wind out of him.

"Eeh?" the kid squeaks at him, clearly sensing his unease.

"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be fine," Din says, holding out his hand so the kid can grab his fingers. As much as he's doing it to soothe his foundling, it goes both ways: he feels more grounded himself, with that familiar pressure against his gloved skin.

He tries to look at the situation in a rational, detached manner, going through everything that's happened since they left Vassek 2. Slate stayed on the _Crest_ all that time. From what the Baroness said, that should mean that Din is the only one at risk. He shudders to think what would've happened if they'd taken Slate with them to the market on Besberra; it had been a varied crowd, but there had been many humans around.

When it comes to his own safety, Din has kept his helmet firmly on during the time Slate has been on board, and its air filters should catch most of the harmful things he might encounter. He just doesn't remember when he last changed them, so they might not be working at full efficiency. He also doesn't know the exact nature of the Zabraks' bioweapon. Viriole, the Baroness called it. He should've asked her for more details. Then again, it's not like he could do anything about it. If he has it, he will find out sooner or later—but that's another thing he should've asked about. He doesn't know how long he needs to wait to be sure that he's in the clear.

For the time being, he needs to decide what to do next, keeping this uncertainty in mind.

They're still flying towards Olva's base, and she doesn't know any of what's happened yet. Din sends a concise message tellling her of Slate's demise and asking how she wants to proceed. It doesn't take long until her reply arrives. It's pretty much what he was expecting: she announces that the deal is off, since Din has failed to fulfill his part, and entreats him to show her the courtesy of bringing Slate's remains home.

Din doesn't feel guilt over what happened to Slate. He couldn't have known that the Zabraks would pull off something this malevolent. Since the disease was incurable, he also never had any chance of keeping Slate alive. Still, taking Slate back to Olva seems like the right thing to do. Din has no desire to keep the carbon-frozen corpse in his hold indefinitely, and it would be nice to wrap up this job, even if he won't get the reward.

He can think of exactly one alternative destination to consider: Nevarro. If he's infected, then he won't be able to take care of the kid, and has to get him to trustworthy people who will look after him. Din keeps those coordinates pre-programmed in case of emergencies, so changing course will be easy, in case it's needed.

He decides that for now, he'll stick to the initial destination. He answers Olva to say that he will do as she asks.

Then, there's nothing to do but wait. They've got several hours of flight time left. With the action having come to a halt, even though his nerves are still on edge, Din suddenly realizes how tired he is. The more paranoid part of his mind latches on to that as something worrisome that must mean he's getting sick. On the other hand, the last time he slept was before they landed on Vassek 2, well over twenty hours ago. It's no wonder he's starting to feel it.

"Time for a nap, don't you think?" he says to the kid, who seems to agree, yawning in response.

He picks up the foundling, sets an alarm for when they're due to arrive, and heads down to the sleeping quarters.

Normally, Din can doze in any circumstances. A bounty hunter has to be able to rest when he gets the chance, since those chances are often a rare luxury. Today is different. While the child soon falls quiet in his hammock, Din can't shake the visions of Slate's final moments: calling out to people who are not there, feverish eyes staring at things only he can see, or worse, his body convulsing on the floor.

When he finally drifts off, it's not to restful sleep, but to ever shifting nightmares.

  


* * *

  


Din wakes up to a splitting headache.

For a confused moment, he's convinced he's surrounded by flames and smoke, with IG-11 standing in front of him, holding his helmet—until he realizes he's still wearing it, and resting on a padded surface. He takes a deep breath and blinks, trying to push away the disturbing memory. Sluggishly, the events of the past day come back to him. With them follows the chilling explanation to why he's feeling so awful.

The pain crushing his skull is not quite as bad as the near-fatal injuries he suffered fighting Moff Gideon on Nevarro, but he knows it will be more deadly. This time, there won't be a nurse droid with bacta spray around, and even if there were, no amount of bacta would fix what's wrong with him.

Since the alarm hasn't gone off yet, they must still be in hyperspace, on the way to Olva's base. In hindsight, it was probably the wrong choice not to change course right away. At the least, he should've napped in the pilot's seat instead of coming down here; now, he has to get back to the cockpit, and he's not sure if he still can.

Moving cautiously, both to avoid waking the child and because he doesn't know how difficult standing will turn out to be, Din opens the door and slips out of the compartment. 

The dizziness strikes him as soon as he straightens up, his vision fading at the edges as the headache grows even more intense. His legs threaten to fold, and he grabs the doorframe to keep himself upright. Luckily, after a while, the worst of it passes. He can still stand, but it's obvious he's working against the clock.

He doesn't know how long he's got until he's too dizzy to stay on his feet—or until he starts losing touch with reality. Slate went down hard and fast, soon after he'd first complained of a headache, but he might've been feeling ill for longer than that, during the day he spent on the _Crest_ while Din and the kid were away. On the other hand, Din may have lost crucial minutes while asleep, since the headache has probably been building up for some time before getting severe enough to wake him up.

He takes a few deep breaths to steel himself and grabs the ladder to start his climb. He's probably never done it this slowly and carefully before, only moving one limb at a time and grasping each rung tight. It's also never felt this strenuous. By the time he gets to the top, he's panting for air, his head is swimming, and he feels chilled and overheated at the same time. He doesn't need to check his temperature to know he's feverish.

He keeps one hand firmly on the wall for balance as he covers the remaining steps to the cockpit.

Trying to focus on the tiny, bright letters and numbers on the displays makes the pain behind his eyes spike again and brings up a wave of nausea. Not that he really needs to see them. There's only one thing he has to do. He lifts a shaky hand to the controls, and manages to enter the command for the automated emergency itinerary to Nevarro.

He should send a message to Olva, to say he can't deliver on his promise, and to Greef or Cara, to explain what's going on. Unfortunately, doing either of those things seems beyond him.

The estimated time to reach Nevarro is no easier to read than the other details on the screens, but he fights through the queasiness and comes up with ten hours. That's far longer than he's got. The kid is going to be stuck on the ship on his own.

Din will dedicate his remaining time to making sure his foundling will be safe and comfortable.

He makes the climb down even more meticulously than the way up; he'd prefer to avoid falling to the floor like Slate. His caution pays off, and he doesn't, but he has to stop to rest for a moment once his feet are on the solid floor. He's standing there, both arms and his helmet against the rungs, when he hears the door to the sleeping compartment slide open.

The kid has gotten out of his hammock and is staring at Din, blinking quizzically, as if realizing that something isn't right.

"Yeah, I'm not feeling great, but don't worry. Things will work out," Din tells him.

He doesn't want the kid to realize how bad things really are, and he definitely doesn't want the kid to see him go through what Slate suffered. He'll need to seal that door properly.

The kid doesn't seem convinced by Din's words; no doubt those big ears of his won't miss the strain in his voice. He raises one hand slowly towards Din in an unmistakable gesture.

"No, it's okay. You shouldn't," Din says, shaking his head for emphasis. "Just sit tight, I'll go grab you a few things."

He steps away from the ladder. The headache is relentless and the room is whirling, like his jetpack has cut off and he's in free fall, but somehow he still succeeds in stumbling across the hold to fetch a bottle of water and the basket of groceries they bought from the market. It's a long way to Nevarro, and the kid needs to eat, after all.

He lands on his knees in front of the kid and sets the supplies on the bunk next to him.

"There you go. You'll have to manage on your own for a bit, now," he says.

The kid is staring at him with such a serious look that it almost makes him look as old as he's supposed to be. His eyes narrow in concentration, both arms extended.

"No, don't," Din says again, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, to break that focus and to reassure him. "I don't want you to. It won't do any good."

For a brief moment, he considers if he should let the foundling give it a try. Even if there's no other way to heal this illness, maybe the kid could do it? But no, Din can't let him. It's too risky; it would be almost like experimenting on him, like those Imps. What if the kid gets hurt, overextending his powers, and Din is too sick to look after him? He can't let that happen. Not when there's no guarantee it would help.

The kid coos at him and tries to move closer, towards the edge of the bunk. Din picks him up gently and lifts him as far inside the compartment as he can reach without standing up. 

He stays there for a moment, facing the child, his knees on the floor and his elbows on the bunk. "I'm sorry I couldn't take you to your kind," he says. He wishes he could keep his voice steady, but there are too many emotions mixing with the agony in his head, and he's having trouble catching his breath. "Still, I know you'll do fine, and you'll go on to do amazing things. I'm proud of you, kid."

Surely, it's only sweat that Din feels sliding down his face, and not tears.

There's so much more he wants to say, about how the foundling changed him and made his life more meaningful than it had ever been, but he doesn't know how to put all that into words.

He backs out of the compartment, raising his hand in a wave, and sees the child wave back. Then, he hits the switch to close the door. Knowing that the kid might otherwise sneak out, he draws his blaster and shoots at the control panel, for good measure.

The kid is as safe as Din can make him. His final mission is done. 

He turns to sit on the floor, his back resting against the door. No longer having a purpose to keep him going, the full weight of the illness takes over, shivers wracking his body, his ragged breathing and racing heartbeat echoing inside his helmet. He has to fight the primal urge to take it off, as if that could somehow lessen the excruciating pain lancing through his skull. He knows it won't help, and he can't give in. He has followed the Creed all his life; he will hold on to it in his last moments. He trusts that when Cara and Greef find his body, they will see to it that he's treated respectfully.

He can't believe this is how he'll face his end. All he ever wanted was to go down fighting, but he won't, just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got tangled in a petty feud. And for what? No one got what they were looking for: Din didn't get the information, the Zabraks didn't get their revenge, and Olva didn't get her partner back.

Din's eyes land on the carbonite block, across the hold from him. He wonders if Slate will ever get home. Probably not.

The idea comes to him like a single ray of light in a deep dark cave. The carbonite. Why didn't he think of that earlier?

He's not sure it actually makes sense—it could be that his feverish mind is latching on to a nonsensical hope, nearing that final stage of delirium. Carbon-freezing is a brutal process that can kill people even when they're not at death's door to start with. Besides, what does he hope to gain? He knows there's no cure. But maybe, just maybe, the Baroness might have been wrong, and maybe there's someone on Nevarro who can figure this out. It's unlikely, but not impossible. It's a big galaxy, and he's witnessed many strange and improbable things himself.

He's not ready to let go. He's going to take whatever slim chance he might have.

He has neither the strength nor the balance to stand, so he covers the distance in an undignified crawl and pulls himself up, hanging on to the closest unoccupied carbonite frame. The controls are a swirl of colors; luckily, the start sequence is simple.

He leans back into the frame and lets the wave of silver wash over him, bringing with it a cold far more intense than fever chills.

His last thought, before the darkness takes him, is a sense of pride that he didn't give up. He fought until the end, even if the fight wasn't with blasters and blades.


	3. Thaw

"What has the poor bastard gotten himself into?" Greef Karga sighs as he stares at the slab of carbonite Cara has brought in.

They're in Greef's home, which is lavish by Nevarro's standards. The living area where they're currently standing is nearly as large as Cara's entire place. Greef has decorated it with trophies and artifacts from his days of running the Guild; Cara thinks the end result mostly resembles a pricey junk shop. Hovering in mid-floor, the carbon-frozen Mandalorian could be another odd collector's piece.

"Wish I knew," she answers Greef. "I'm sure this one would have quite a story for us, if he could speak in some language we understand."

The child she's holding seems to notice she's addressing him, and replies in a babble as incomprehensible as any.

Greef starts walking around the carbonite block in a slow circle, eyes fixed on it, as if seeing it from a different angle might reveal something new. "And you said there was another one, besides our Mando?" he asks, not looking up at her as he speaks.

"Yeah, a dead guy. Human. I left him on the _Crest_ , it's not like he's going anywhere," Cara says.

"I should hope not," Greef agrees. "He doesn't look injured to you, does he? Mando, I mean?"

"He doesn't, but there could be plenty that's out of sight. Why?" Cara has already spent enough time studying the unnervingly statue-like figure that she doesn't need to check again. Mando's armor seems as flawless as ever, and there are no obvious tears in his flight suit, either. Then again, they only have a partial view of his front; for all they know, his back could be blown to bits.

Greef has finished his round, stopping by the control panel again. "His vitals are fluctuating," he says, by way of explanation.

That's not something Cara would know how to read from the display, which is why she's glad to have Greef around. She's also not certain what that means, in this context. "I assume that's bad?"

"It's definitely not good," Greef says.

"So, how do we fix it?" Cara asks.

"Do I look like a doctor to you?" Greef grumbles, aiming a sharp glance at her. "I know one thing for sure: we can't do anything as long as he's frozen solid."

"Let's thaw him, then. That's easy, right?" she suggests.

The kid—who probably understands them way more than they understand him—clearly knows who they're talking about, because he lets out a squeal and gestures excitedly towards the carbonite.

Greef purses his lips, looking from the kid to the Mandalorian. "It's very easy, but for all we know, it might kill him."

"Kriff," Cara mutters under her breath. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Maybe we should bring in a medic to ensure that it goes smoothly?"

"An excellent idea, if we had someone we can trust. We don't know how he ended up like this. There might be people looking for him. Unless you have some truly dependable doc in your back pocket, this is up to us," Greef says.

He's right, of course. There are a few self-proclaimed physicians in town, but she doesn't know any of them well enough to put Mando's life in their hands. "Not on Nevarro, no," she admits. "There are medics I served with that I could contact, they'd be reliable. Could we take him off-world?"

"We might not have enough time for that, since he's not actually stable," Greef points out.

Cara scoffs. This is starting to get ridiculous. "Are you shooting down all my ideas on principle?"

"Of course not!" Greef says, raising his voice defensively. "I'm just trying to think this through properly. Was there really nothing on the _Razor Crest_ that could explain what's happened?"

The kid has started squirming in Cara's hold, still reaching out towards the Mandalorian. She tries to distract him by bouncing him up and down, like she's seen people do with babies. It feels awkward. "Sorry, kid, he's not very cuddly right now," she says to him, before replying to Greef. "Nothing that I haven't mentioned to you. No signs of struggle, no blood anywhere. Just that one corpse in carbonite next to him. The last two destinations on the flight logs were Besberra and Vassek, in case those mean something to you. I didn't memorize the older ones. They've been on a proper tour of the Rim since the last time we saw them."

"The Vassek system sounds familiar—I think I've dealt with people from there. I could check my records," Greef thinks aloud. "Maybe I should go over to the ship and take a look myself, in case you missed something."

"Or how about this: we could just thaw him and ask," Cara points out, starting to grow fed up with all this talk and no action. "Look, I may not know much about carbon-freezing, but I know Din Djarin, and he wouldn't want to stay like this any longer than he has to. If he could talk, he'd tell us to get on with it. He's as tough as they come—he'll pull through."

Greef lets out a thoughtful hum and glances at the Mandalorian again, as if waiting for him to confirm, then nods to himself. "He really would say that, wouldn't he? Maybe you're right. Just let me get some supplies first. We should at least be as prepared as we can."

He heads out of the room, and Cara is stuck waiting with a Mando-shaped carbonite block and a restless kid who keeps trying to slip out of her arms. She can't blame the kid for that, considering that she's antsy herself, too much so to sit down. She paces back and forth, telling herself it's to placate the child, but it's as much for herself as it is for him.

"It's gonna be all right," she says, patting his back. Hopefully, she's not making a promise she can't keep.

When Greef returns, he drops a bundle of blankets and a worn duffel bag at the foot of the carbonite frame. "Blankets, because he'll be cold, they always are," he explains. "And what first aid supplies I had on hand, because we don't know what else to expect."

"Good thinking," Cara says. "So, are we doing this now?"

"Yes. Let's give it a go and hope for the best," Greef says.

He thumbs the button to switch off the antigrav, bringing the carbonite block to rest on the floor. A few more key presses start the thaw cycle. The frame begins to hum, and after a moment where nothing seems to happen—even the kid has gone perfectly still in Cara's arms—the cool silver slowly shifts into a warm red glow, getting brighter and brighter, until it melts away to reveal the familiar armored shape in his usual colors.

Cara's first thought is relief: she doesn't see any obvious injuries. On the other hand, Mando is quiet and not making any effort to get up. In fact, he seems as lifeless as he did while frozen.

She kneels on the floor, setting down the child, and grabs hold of Din's pauldron to give him a shake. "Rise and shine, Mando!"

He doesn't respond, his helmet lolling where it rests in the remainder of his carbonite cocoon. Alarmed, she crouches closer, trying to catch any faint sound of breathing through his helmet modulator, and looking for the rise and fall of his beskar-plated chest. She can't find either, but that could just be because of all the layers covering him. "I can't tell if he's breathing," she says urgently.

Greef has sat down on the other side of the frame. "I can remove his glove, can't I? That's not against the rules?"

"I don't know all the dumb rules he follows, but I'm sure that's fine." Cara wishes she could take off his helmet, but that's the one thing that's absolutely untouchable. She's not going to forget the time when he nearly died because he'd rather keep it on than let her see his face. She runs her fingers along his breastplate instead, trying to figure out how it comes off. It seems attached to the flak vest so that she'd need to undress the whole thing in one go.

Greef must be wary of even touching anything too close to the helmet, since he's not checking for a pulse at Mando's neck. Instead, he's pulled off that glove and jammed his fingers under the edge of the vambrace. "He's alive," he announces.

The next thing that happens has to be just the most perfectly timed coincidence, because the kid clearly isn't doing any of that magic stuff. There's no focusing or hand-waving. He just presses his tiny fingers against Mando's palm, claws digging into the bare skin, and at that exact moment, she hears a groan from behind the visor, followed by a cough, and then, raspy breaths.

Considering how loud those gasps sound and the way his chest is heaving, both the armor plate and the padding below moving with it, she's willing to bet he wasn't breathing earlier. "Mando, you with us now?" she checks, placing her hand on his shoulder again.

"Let go of him," he says, his voice raw, barely above a whisper. The words don't make any sense as a reply, and his visor is very obviously not turned towards Cara, Greef, or the kid, instead facing the empty air to Cara's left.

Greef has let go of Mando's wrist, going for the shoulder opposite from Cara instead. "It's okay, Mandalorian. We've just freed you from carbonite."

"Please, let him go," Mando repeats, this time with obvious despair.

Cara frowns and glances at Greef. "What's he on about?"

"Maybe something that happened before he got frozen? Hibernation sickness can cause memory loss and confusion. Temporary blindness, too, but maybe not for him, since he's not complaining about that," he explains and pats Mando's pauldron lightly. "Come on, let's get you out of there."

Mando's still resting in the carbonite frame, which has to be cold and hard underneath him. In fact, Cara can feel shivers running through him. She follows Greef's lead, sliding a hand under Mando's back to guide him up and to the floor.

Mando doesn't seem happy to accommodate their actions, attempting to twist in their grip and push them away, but there's barely any strength behind his movements. As soon as they have him over the edge of the frame, he slumps to the colorful carpet. And still, in spite of how weary he seems, he leans on one elbow and brings up a vambrace to protect himself. "I won't let you do that," he growls.

Reacting mostly on instinct, Cara moves in to grab him in a secure hold, pinning his arms to his sides. It's unnerving how easily she manages to do it—normally, they would be evenly matched, but now, it's like wrestling a newborn nerf.

"Come on, we need to disarm him," she tells Greef.

Even if Mando's aim is completely off, those vambraces hold an arsenal. Having him wave around flamethrowers and miniature rockets when he's this confused is a very bad idea. Greef seems to catch her drift and sets to work on Mando's left forearm. Cara shifts her position so that she can do the right side while holding him down. They remove the rest of his weapons as well: the blaster from his thigh holster, the vibroblade from his boot, and his belt with the thermal detonators. She doubts he could do much damage with any of those in his present state, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious.

With the weapons safely out of reach, Cara loosens her hold and sits back, just keeping one steadying hand on Mando's beskar-free arm. "Sorry about that. Really, it's okay, Djarin," she says, pronouncing the name as clearly as she can, trying to make her voice steady and reassuring. "It's just me, Cara. You're with friends on Nevarro. You're safe. The kid is okay, too. You can relax."

"No! You stay away from the child," he insists, his voice wavering as the chills grow worse. 

Cara isn't sure if he registered her mentioning the kid, or if it's a part of whatever scenario is playing inside his head. In reality, the kid has walked around the carbonite frame to stand next to his helmet, making plenty of noise, clearly trying to catch his attention. He doesn't seem to notice any of it. Every word he's said so far implies that he's not aware of his surroundings.

"I'd say this is worse than just confusion," Cara comments to Greef. "I think he's hallucinating."

Greef nods, his expression thoughtful and concerned. "This doesn't look like any of the other bad thaws I've seen, and I've no clue how to help. The least we can do is make him comfortable. He'll be feeling the cold for a while still."

Together, they manage to lug the feebly struggling Mandalorian to the divan at the other end of the room. Greef hurries back to the carbonite to pick up one of the blankets he brought, and spreads it over him. Mando keeps speaking up every now and then, but none of it makes any sense, beyond that he seems to be trying to protect the kid from someone.

"I'm going to make a call and ask one of those less-than-trustworthy local docs if they have any ideas," Greef says. "You stay and keep a close eye on him. I don't like how his breathing sounds."

"Can't say I do, either," Cara agrees. It's fast and labored, like he's been running. "I'll see if I can get rid of more of his armor. That should make him cozier, and give me a chance to make sure he's not hiding any injuries under there."

She doesn't reveal any wounds as she works to strip him of the armor plates, the cape and the flak vest. The child keeps trying to climb up to the divan, to be closer to his adoptive father, and Cara keeps having to stop her work to pick him up and lift him away. It feels downright cruel, but considering Mando's befuddled state of mind, she doesn't think it's safe to let the kid near him.

Mando may not be injured, but with the close contact required for undressing him, Cara notices something else that's worrisome. Even through the thick fabric of his flight suit, he feels very warm. She'd expect that so soon after the carbon-freeze, he should rather have a low body temperature.

Once again wishing she could take off his helmet, to feel his forehead, she has to settle for slipping a hand inside his collar instead. He's definitely feverish: his skin is burning hot against her fingers and slick with sweat. Underneath, his pulse is a rapid flutter.

It's clear he's not getting better. His attempts to push her away have grown less frequent, his words less coherent as the minutes pass. He barely seems to register her cool touch against his neck, just turning his head in the other direction. What she first takes for a shrug to shake her off turns out to be just shudders from the chills running through him.

By the time she's done with everything else and moves to the end of the divan to remove his shin guards and pull off his boots, she realizes that he's stopped resisting altogether. She makes quick work of the final pieces of armor, dropping them carelessly on the floor, so that she can confirm he's still breathing. Thankfully, he is, it's just less loud than before.

She gives his bicep a firm squeeze. "Mando! Who said you could go to sleep? Come on." It might be that he really is sleeping because he's completely exhausted, but she'd still feel better if she could get some kind of a reaction out of him.

When he doesn't respond to any of her attempts at rousing him, she decides to finally let the kid near him. It really had looked like he woke Mando up after the thaw. It doesn't work a second time, though. He prods at Mando's arm and side and makes demanding noises at him to no effect. She expects him to try his powers next, and is considering that she should let him do it, because she's getting really worried for Mando, but surprisingly, he doesn't. Instead, his ears droop in disappointment and he curls up against Mando's side. So much for that, then.

Cara fetches Greef's first aid bag, hoping to come up with something useful. Rummaging through it, she finds a simple medical scanner, bandages, painkillers, and a small jar of bacta gel. The scanner just verifies what she'd already figured out—his temperature is through the roof and his vitals don't look great. The rest of the items won't help her address any of it. That's as far as she gets before the owner of the bag returns.

"Any change?" Greef calls out as he approaches.

Cara puts down the supplies and gets up from the floor. "Yeah, but not for the better. He's running a fever and he won't wake up. I'd bet my blaster that this isn't hibernation sickness. Also, you need a better medpac. Please tell me you learned something useful?" she asks back.

"Well, for one, the doc I talked to said that, I quote, if the patient doesn't start making sense within the first fifteen minutes after the thaw, it's probably not just hibernation sickness," Greef replies.

"We didn't need a medic to conclude that, I got there all by myself," Cara comments dryly. "So, what did they think we should do, then?"

Greef sighs and spreads his arms. "Really, that call was a waste of time. He used a lot of fancy words to say that he doesn't have a clue. If we want something better than a list of a dozen different things that this may or may not be, he'd apparently need a lot more detail, and preferably a blood sample."

"Then we should consider giving him one. Greef, I think Mando's really sick." Cara may not be a medic, but from what she's seen, watching him for the past half hour, she has a strong gut feeling that this is serious.

"What about his Creed? It could compromise his identity," Greef points out.

Cara huffs in frustration. It's like they're back in the conversation from before they thawed him. Come to think of it, Greef may have been right, then. Maybe they should've spent more time trying to find out everything they could before freeing him from the carbonite.

She's torn between the realization that their earlier quick action might have been a mistake, and the gnawing concern that Mando is slipping away and they should do something, anything, as soon as they can. Either way, it's clear to her that they need to stop worrying about potential later repercussions, and focus on the situation at hand.

"Honestly, I think we should invite that doc of yours over. We can watch him and stop him from doing anything that's not acceptable. Besides, even if someone's looking for Mando and the doc reveals his position to them, we can deal with that. What we can't deal with is what's going on with him now," Cara says.

"If you're sure that's—" Greef begins, only to be cut off by a startled wail from where the object of their debate lies.

The child has stood up, crying out, and backs away from Mando to slide down to the floor. It's obvious what has spooked him: Mando's back is arched off the divan, his arms and legs jerking in movements that don't look coordinated or even voluntary.

"Shit, he's having a seizure!" Cara exclaims and rushes to kneel next to Mando. "Greef, take the other side!"

"Ah, of course," Greef mumbles, sounding more subdued than usual, and does as he's told. She glances at him over Mando's writhing form, and can see that his eyes are wide with distress. "What do I do? Should we hold him down?"

"Just make sure he doesn't fall to the floor." It's been years since Cara got her field first aid training, but she knows it's best to keep him safe and wait. Good thing he's already on a soft surface and wearing a helmet.

She starts counting seconds, and gets up to three long minutes until Mando finally goes still.

Far too still, in fact.

For the second time within the space of an hour, she's trying to check whether he's breathing and coming up with nothing. She rests a hand on his chest, and can't feel any movement—not even a heartbeat. Looking up, she sees Greef is holding Mando's wrist, the stunned expression still on his face. As their eyes meet, Greef shakes his head.

"No. No, this can't be how this ends," Cara says, feeling every bit as overwhelmed as Greef looks. "No way we're losing him like this!"

She's already got her hands on Mando's helmet—damn his Creed, she's not going to let him off this easy—when Greef stops her with a hand on her forearm.

"Cara, wait. Let him try, first," Greef says.

It takes a few seconds for his words to break through her single-minded focus and the state of shock she's in. When they do, she notices the persistent tugging at her boot and the demanding childish voice.

"He didn't want to do it earlier," she tells Greef, because he wasn't around, then, when she expected the kid to try his magic, and he didn't.

"Still, he has a better chance of fixing this than either of us," Greef says.

He's right, of course. Rescue breaths or chest compressions won't heal whatever is making Mando sick in the first place. Even if she could keep him alive a little longer, they'd be no closer to saving him.

She picks up the child so that they're face to face, looking right into those huge dark eyes. "I don't know what's going on in your head, kiddo, but whatever was stopping you earlier, you need to get over it. You're his last, best hope," she says, trying to keep her voice kind, but firm. The way Mando talks to him. She doesn't think she gets it quite right.

The child tilts his head, his expression puzzled. Still, whatever else he may understand, he has to get that Mando's in dire trouble, because that's pretty damn obvious.

She sets him down on the divan. "You do your thing, okay?"

"I know you can do it," Greef adds encouragingly. "You've done miracles before. You once helped me. Now, help him."

The child squares his shoulders, standing a tiny bit taller than he usually does. Then, slowly, he raises both hands, his eyes narrowing until only the slightest sliver of brown is visible.

Cara doesn't dare move a muscle as the kid holds his position for a moment that stretches on. After a while, his hands begin to shake, his mouth twists into a grimace, and finally, he slumps forwards over Mando's side, seemingly as lifeless as he is.

"Oh, no, the child, is he…" Greef murmurs.

Cara crouches closer, and hears a soft snore from the kid, muffled against the fabric of Mando's shirt. The next thing she notices is the kid's head moving up and down with Mando's deep, steady breaths where it rests over his ribs.

"I think he's going to be okay. They both are," Cara says softly, and pulls up the blanket to cover them.


	4. After

Din wakes up feeling like he's been trampled by a mudhorn. Every muscle in his body is sore, and his head isn't much better, a constant ache enveloping it, as if the inside of his helmet were just a little too tight.

There's one spot of warmth that doesn't hurt as much as the rest, against his left side, and even without opening his eyes, he can tell what that must be. He brings up his hand and finds the small, floppy-eared head that he was expecting. The fine fuzz of hair covering it is soft against his palm, which, he realizes with some trepidation, is ungloved.

The child mumbles sleepily and shifts his position, burrowing into Din's armpit, his head coming to rest on Din's shoulder. There's no armor there, either, he notes; by the feel of it, everything except for his helmet is gone. Although he's incredibly tired, the anxiety over his defenseless state helps him push past that.

He opens his eyes to stare at a beige ceiling. Wherever he is, it's definitely not on the _Crest_. Turning his head to get a better idea, all he finds out is that either his display or his eyes are not working right: the view around him refuses to focus beyond blurred blobs in various shapes and colors.

He tries to sit up, holding on to the child, but doesn't get anywhere. His vision fades out altogether, a loud buzz overwhelms his ears, and the next thing he knows, he's flat on his back again. He lets his eyes close, taking deep breaths and waiting for the room to stop spinning.

"Mando! Mando, take it easy—don't try to get up just yet," someone's saying, somewhere in the distance, a commanding female voice he should know. A moment later, a weight settles down next to him, a hand on his bicep creating another point of warmth.

He clears his parched throat and tries to force out his most pressing question: "Where am I?"

The words are so hoarse, he can barely hear them himself, but the person next to him seems to get the idea. "Nevarro, Greef's place. You're safe," she answers. With that, his drowsy mind finally manages to place the voice. Cara. He might not have his beskar, but he and the child are not without protection.

"My armor?" he still has to check.

"Don't worry, it's safe, too, right by your bed," she assures him, speaking in a soft, soothing tone that he hasn't heard from her often.

He risks looking again. Above him, Cara is a blur with green accents. He tilts his head to the other side, and spots a grayish shape lower down that could be beskar. Quickly skimming through a few different displays doesn't bring any clarity; as he might've guessed, it's not the helmet that's broken. His earlier apprehension, the unease of vulnerability, is creeping back in a different form.

"I can't see," he breathes.

"That's probably from the carbonite—I'm sure it will pass," Cara says. The mention of carbonite seems somehow important, but his mind slides past it and latches on to her slight hesitation, which sounds disturbingly like she's not entirely convinced this is temporary. "Other than that, do you feel all right?" she adds.

He's aching all over and exhausted to the point where getting up seems impossible, but he's not half as concerned about that as his eyesight. "More or less," he replies, his voice breaking at the third word. His mouth's as dry as the rocky, lava-streaked plains outside. Simple dehydration might explain some of his lethargy. "Water?"

"Oh, kriff, of course, sorry. Should've thought of that." Cara's weight disappears, and the sound of her footsteps quickly grows distant as she hurries out of the room. 

He's almost drifted off again when she returns to hand him a canteen, placing it directly in his right hand. "Can you manage on your own? Anything else you need?" she asks.

"I'll manage," he assures her, just eager to get the solitude necessary for a drink.

In reality, it turns out embarrassingly difficult to raise his helmet slightly, open the canteen, and get up on one elbow so that he can bring it to his lips. His arms are completely devoid of strength, the hand holding the canteen shaking so badly that he ends up splashing a good deal of water down his front. It's every bit worth the effort, though; the mouthfuls that he manages to gulp down are wonderfully refreshing.

The child stays asleep all the way through this struggle and doesn't respond to Din's attempt to wake him and offer him some water. With growing concern, Din closes the canteen, drops it on the floor and lowers his helmet, turning his attention to the kid.

Damn his useless eyes; he can't be sure if the little one looks unharmed. His sleep is rarely this deep unless he's used his powers. Is that what happened? Din doesn't have any memory of it, but then again, his brain is as fuzzy as his vision, the recent past a shapeless dark haze.

Cara spoke of carbonite, and there is something he needs to remember about that.

Din focuses on the internal landscape instead of the blurry one around him. There's a scene that comes up in his mind: a man in carbonite, his aloof face at peace, because he was already dead when Din froze him.

Slate, Din recalls his name.

That detail becomes the spark that lights the fire, bringing the past few days back in brilliant clarity, from his first meeting with Olva to what he thought to be his last moments alive. From there, the sickness and the carbonite took over, and his memories splinter into a chaos of pain and nightmares, of the child tortured before his eyes while he was frozen in place, utterly unable to help.

Cara calling out to him brings him back to the present with a start. "Mando? You still awake?"

He was too lost in thought to even notice her return. He berates himself for being so careless. Trying to look, he can make out two people standing next to him. Going by the size and colors, the other one is probably Greef.

"Yes," Din replies, struggling to grasp how his memories relate to the present. He had been dying. He doesn't remember getting to Nevarro, or being freed of the carbonite. "How did I survive?"

The answer comes in Greef's deep voice, confirming his identity. "You've got the little one to thank for that. We wouldn't be talking to you now if not for him."

"Oh." That does explain why the child is so tired. Din holds him a little closer, one arm wrapped around him, the opposite hand caressing his head.

"He didn't seem to want to do it, at first," Cara says. "Any idea why?"

Din is fairly sure he knows the answer to that. Of all the times for the child to actually listen to him and do as he said.

He doesn't laugh very often, but with the relief of knowing that they made it, in spite of everything—and the realization that they might have avoided all this if he'd let the kid try healing him right away—he finds a chuckle bubbling up. He doesn't see any reason to fight it, either, when he's among friends.

"Mando?" Greef asks, sounding confused, or even concerned.

"I told him not to," Din says.

Cara smacks the side of his helmet; not hard, although it does nothing to improve his headache. The words that follow are as sharp as her strike. "You better not do that again. I get that you want to protect him and would give your life for him, but this was unnecessary and just plain stupid."

"It was supposed to be incurable," Din says defensively.

"Well, we've seen it before that the child doesn't follow the same rules as the rest of us," Greef comments. "What was it, anyway? What happened to you?"

"A bioweapon aimed at my client," Din answers. It's enough of a summary.

He must be long overdue from his meeting with Olva, and unless Cara and Greef have moved the carbonite block, Slate is still on the _Crest_. Not to mention that Din has a major bone to pick with the Zabraks. He'll have to deal with all of that when he's had more time to recover. For now, he's too tired to describe the full story to the others, let alone start making plans for the future. Besides, the child needs rest as well.

"I'll tell you all about it later," he adds.

Thankfully, Greef seems to understand. "Fair enough. You focus on getting your strength back," he says, patting Din's shoulder. "Do you feel up to eating? I could bring you a bowl of soup."

After his struggle with the water canteen, Din isn't convinced of his chances, but he knows he needs the energy. "Sounds great."

"I'll grab you a few pillows, it'll be easier to eat sitting up," Cara offers.

It's shameful to Din to be this dependent on others. He's so used to taking care of everything on his own, this seems almost too easy. And yet, in spite of the shame, it's also soothing to know that he can rest and not worry too much about his safety. He's infinitely grateful to everyone around him: the green child asleep in his arms, and the two humans he's come to trust more than he thought he would ever trust anyone outside of his Covert. Without them, he wouldn't be here at all, to feel all these complicated things.

"Thank you," Din says. "Both of you, for everything."

  


* * *

  


After a moderate success with his meal—barely any spills—Cara and Greef help Din stagger to the refresher, and then to a guest bedroom, so that he can rest with more privacy. It's obvious that it's too soon for him to be on his feet: Cara takes so much of his weight that she might as well be carrying him. Greef helps guide their way around obstacles, cradling the kid with the arm that's not supporting Din.

Din supposes they expect him to take off his helmet once they close the door to the small room, leaving him on his own. He doesn't. Even though he does eat and drink with the kid around, he doesn't make exceptions beyond that.

He falls asleep as soon as he's settled comfortably in the bed, which is much bigger and softer than the bunk on his ship.

A day passes by, maybe longer, with Din drifting in and out of consciousness. Cara and Greef visit every now and then, always careful to knock and check if he's awake before they enter. Once he's feeling well enough for longer conversations, he fills them in on everything that happened to land him in this predicament.

To his great relief, his eyesight is faster to return than his strength. Each time he wakes up, he can see a little better, picking up more details of the room around him. The green blurs become succulent houseplants sitting on a small table, and the blue smear on the wall coalesces into a painting that might be a seascape. Neither of these are what he'd expect from Greef. No doubt there are stories behind each item. He's not going to ask.

As his concern for his vision wanes, he grows more and more worried for the child. The foundling still hasn't shown any signs of coming around; there's been the occasional drowsy mumble or shift in position, but nothing beyond that. He's never needed this long before. Clearly, there is a price to pay for saving Din from certain death.

He wishes there was something he could do to help in return. Having no magical powers, he will have to settle for hoping for the best, and swearing once again to protect the child from each and every threat the universe will throw at them.

  


* * *

  


After a particularly long bout of dreamless sleep, Din is roused by morning sunlight filtering in through the narrow window. The first thing he realizes is that the view through his visor is back to its usual crisp detail, every last trace of haziness gone. The second thing is a profound shock that wakes him up instantly: the kid is no longer by his side.

He has to resist the urge to leap out of bed, because it's all too likely he'd end up fainting if he did that. Instead, he sits up slowly, flinging aside the blanket, shifts his legs over the edge of the bed, and looks around. 

The child is sitting on the floor near the table with the houseplants. While Din hasn't paid much attention to what's under the table, the child seems very interested in the contents of a woven box he's found there. He's pulled out a shabby boot made of scaly leather and is currently chewing on its toe.

Din grins inside his helmet, feeling like a huge weight has been lifted off his chest. The kid is fine. Everything is all right in the world.

"That can't be very tasty," Din comments.

"Wah!" the kid exclaims, dropping the boot. He whirls around to waddle towards Din with his arms extended, a delighted smile lighting up his face.

Din lifts up the kid, setting him on his lap. "I'm glad to see you're okay, too, buddy." Din almost finds himself wishing the kid could see his expression, because he's not sure his voice can convey enough of what he's feeling. "What you did for me—I would never ask that of you, but I'm grateful. Thank you."

The child seems to catch the gravity of Din's words, his face going serious as he stares unblinkingly at Din's visor, his hands clasping Din's forearm. Then, the moment passes: the kid lets go of Din's sleeve and gestures towards the table, chattering. 

"Yeah, I can imagine you're hungry, you slept for a very long time," Din says. "Let's go find you something nicer to eat than Greef's old boot."

Din sets the child on the floor again, not trusting his ability to carry him safely. So far, he hasn't even made it to the 'fresher and back without support, but he's feeling a lot better this morning. Now is as good a time as any to test if he can manage a short walk.

Keeping every movement slow and careful, he stands up. Although his limbs feel heavier than they should without the beskar, there's no dizziness, like he's come to expect. He's definitely much improved. He glances at the kid, half wondering if the little one had something to do with this, but probably not, considering that they're both fully awake.

His armor and all his weapons rest in a pile in one corner of the room. He's spent far too long without them. He shuffles over to them and settles on the floor to make himself complete again.

The child observes the process keenly, his eyes following Din's every move. He even tries to help, picking up items and offering them to him. Not in the right order, of course, but Din appreciates the effort, and at least the kid isn't trying to put them in his mouth.

Every plate back in position, cape over his back, and fully armed, Din pushes himself up from the floor. He only needs to lean a little on the table. The armor does weigh him down, but he doesn't mind that discomfort; it makes him feel closer to normal. This is him, his body as it should be, no longer soft and unprotected.

He gets to the door and out of the room without any trouble. The kid trails by his side, overtaking him when he stops to rest in the corridor with one hand against the wall. His foundling is actually moving faster than he is, on those tiny feet and stubby legs. That's something he wasn't ever expecting to see.

By the time they reach the living area, Din is out of breath, his legs awfully shaky. He would be able to keep going if he had to, but since there's no reason to test his limits, he lets himself sink into the nearest armchair.

The kid seems confused by his weakness, pacing to and fro in front of him and cooing.

"Sorry, I just need a moment," Din says.

"Ah, I thought I heard something," Greef calls out from the far side of the room. "And you're back in beskar, and the child is awake, too!" he adds happily as he gets closer. "Wonderful! There's breakfast, just tell me where you prefer to have it."

"You're turning into a proper innkeeper," Din jokes.

As light as the words are, with them comes the realization that he and the kid have been here for too long already. The kid's awake and doing fine. While Din is by no means fully recovered, he can walk on his own again, and his vision is back to normal, meaning his aim will be as true as ever. They're both well enough to leave, and that's what they must do.

"Only for my very best friends," Greef is saying, his arms spread, a wide smile on his lips.

"I won't impose on your hospitality much longer," Din says. "If you've got some food for the kid, that would be great. I'll eat on the _Crest_ when we get there."

Greef stares at Din like he's suddenly started speaking Jawaese. "You can't seriously consider leaving already!"

"I have things to take care of," Din states simply.

"Even so." Greef shakes his head. "I'm obviously not going to stop you, but just so that we're clear on this, having you here is no trouble at all. You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like."

"I know," Din says, "but we have to go."

Muttering to himself about foolhardy Mandalorians, Greef disappears into the kitchen. 

It's not that Din particularly wants to go—he can't say he's not enjoying this respite from the world that's constantly out for him and the kid. It's just that he knows the world won't come to a halt because he needs a break. He's learned the lesson many times over that he shouldn't stay in one place too long with the kid. Even if there's no constant stream of bounty hunters at their tail, there are still many people who think they could gain fame and fortune by grabbing the kid from him, or who'd simply like to see Din dead.

He wouldn't be surprised if Olva had already sent someone to look for him, to recover Slate's body and retaliate for Din's failure at the job. He'll need to reach out to her and try to convince her that he had a good reason for his disappearing act. If she hasn't done anything to get her revenge on the Zabraks yet, he'll be more than happy to help; if she has no such plans, he'll pay those two a visit, either way. Neither Olva's base nor the Vassek system are close to Nevarro, so Din should have plenty more time to recuperate before he needs to fight anyone.

In a few minutes, Greef returns with a plate of cold cuts and assorted eggs for the child. Not long after, Cara shows up as well. Greef must've given her a call when he was fetching the food.

She greets them with a wave. "Mando! What's this nonsense I hear about you leaving?"

"News travels fast around here," Din comments.

"It's a small town," Cara returns. "You weren't planning on sneaking out without as much as saying bye to me, were you?"

"Of course not. I was hoping you'd walk to the _Crest_ with me." Din expects she'll guess that he's not only thinking of the company, but also the fact that the ship is at least fifteen minutes away. He might not make it that far without a shoulder to lean on.

"I'll do you one better. I'm coming with you. To Vassek, or wherever it is that you're headed," Cara declares, her voice and her expression making it clear that her mind's already made up.

"But you have work here," Din tries, anyway. He would rather not get other people involved and possibly hurt because of a job turned sour. Considering that the Zabraks had that vicious disease on hand, who knows what else they might use to defend themselves.

Cara crosses her arms. "Nevarro will survive a day or five without me. You, I'm not so sure about, right now."

"I can take care of myself," Din begins, but his complaint is lost under Greef's louder voice. 

"Which is why he shouldn't be leaving so soon in the first place!" Greef exclaims. "Cara, I thought you'd be able to talk sense into that hard, shiny head of his, not play along with this madness!"

"Hey, I can't work miracles—that's his job," Cara says, with a nod towards the child who's sitting on a low table, busy stuffing his face, definitely not looking like a sorcerer who can defy what's possible.

"You didn't even try," Greef argues.

"Have you met Mando? If he's decided he's leaving, he's leaving," Cara says. "Going with him is the best compromise I can think of."

Greef blows out a heavy sigh. "Ah, fine, fine! I guess I should start packing, then."

"You what?" Din splutters. This is not going the way he was planning, at all.

"It's always good to have someone around whose first instinct isn't to solve everything by shooting at it," Greef says.

Din pushes himself up from his seat, standing to face them properly. Luckily, there's still no dizziness, and if his legs feel a little wobbly, he doesn't think that shows. "Look, you're both very kind, but this is my mess. I'll sort it out myself."

"Sure you will. With a little help from us," Cara says. She steps closer and gives his shoulder a light nudge that's enough to throw him off balance. Of course, she also catches him right away as he stumbles.

So much for not showing weakness—she saw right through it. Maybe they do have a point.

"Besides, we deserve some payback, too," Greef says. "That moment when I thought we'd lost both you and the child took years off my life. See, my beard's turning gray!" He motions at his chin.

"It was already that color when Mando got here," Cara notes.

"I won't be able to talk you out of this, will I?" Din says.

Cara grins brightly. "Nope. You're not the only stubborn person here."

"Not a chance," Greef agrees.

"All right. I surrender." Din lets himself fall back into the armchair. No point in posturing if it's not going to get him anywhere.

He's already feeling guilty for putting his friends in harm's way because of something that's not even particularly important—this is nothing like fighting intruding Imps or protecting the child. He just needs some closure on this job, that's all. Still, deep down, he's also glad that he'll have backup.

"Go get your gear," Din says. "We'll leave as soon as the kid's finished his breakfast."

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr post for this story can be found [here](https://veldeia.tumblr.com/post/643668377112608769/fic-solifluction).
> 
> Also, if anyone happens to have recommendations for a nice Discord server for this fandom (for someone who's primarily interested in non-shippy content), do let me know!


End file.
